


Named

by yellowcottondresses



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Kanera Baby, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcottondresses/pseuds/yellowcottondresses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So far, Zeb had kept every one of his promises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Named

**Author's Note:**

> My VERY FIRST Star Wars fic! Ohhhhhh this is nerve-wracking.
> 
> Don't ask me how it happened. Somehow, I just became Kalluzeb trash. 
> 
> Tesa Jarrus is my original character. She makes another appearance in a fic of mine called “Places No One Knows”. You don't actually NEED to read that one to understand the greater context of this, but...hey, why not? =)
> 
> I don't own SWR.

Really, it’s all Bridger’s fault. 

Except maybe it isn’t, because it’s not as if that common peasant had ever been to the Imperial Academy. And apparently his oh-so-revered Jedi Master never bothered to teach his padawan the basics of tying satisfactory knots. Or at least, knots that didn’t un-tie themselves. 

Kallus had watched the kid tie it right before he and Jarrus disappeared to parts unknown for…whatever they did as some of the last Jedi in galactic existence. But the knot, Kallus noted, was hardly strong enough to keep bootlaces tied.

Forget about being able to hold the weight of a sentient being. 

For now, that sentient being was nestled comfortably inside the makeshift carrier Bridger had fashioned. But from here, Kallus could tell that the fastenings securing the carrier in place were struggling to hold the weight of the creature inside. The boy’s knot was all but useless. 

Jarrus ought to consider changing his curriculum. Lightsaber combat is one thing, but you never know when the most basic survival skills would come in handy.

(Like when you’re trapped on a freezing moon in a cave full of monsters, with nobody out there who cares enough to save you)

(Except one)

He scowls and forces the thought away.

Right now, master and padawan are nowhere to be found, and neither is anybody else. Zeb and the Mandalorian girl left early this morning for a supply run in what passed as a market in this boil on the butt of the Outer Rim he would not deign to call a planet. Syndulla is meeting with Commander Sato and several other Phoenix leaders behind closed doors. 

And for reasons that Kallus cannot possibly fathom, the disgruntled astromech with a habit for electrocuting beings he doesn’t like and refusing to play nice with other rebel droids has been put in charge of watching over the small being lying in the carrier. 

A small being who, at present, is making small, contented noises as it swings perilously over empty air. 

Kallus does not have to speak binary to assume the little orange droid is sulking. His spindly metal arms wave in the air as he beeps and blats in what suspiciously mimics human snorting. Apparently, he sees the orders he’s been given as completely beneath him. Kallus suspects the only reason the droid hadn’t left the little cooing creature alone in its carrier as soon as Syndulla turned her back was because the captain was the only person aboard this entire ship who could reasonably control the tiny murderbot. 

But just because he obeyed Syndulla’s orders to “stay put and watch her, but don’t come and get me unless it’s an emergency, yes, even if she starts crying…NO, C1-10P, YOU ARE NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES TO SHOCK THE BABY, so help me, if you even TRY I will have you taken apart so fast, you won’t even know what’s happening”, didn’t mean the droid had to do it without complaint. 

And because the droid is too busy grumbling in binary to pay attention, he doesn’t notice the way Bridger’s faulty knot holding the carrier to the wall is dangerously close to coming undone.

If the knot is not retied – with a proper knot this time, an Imperial knot, the kind Kallus had been taught along with every other recruit when they were even younger than Bridger, really, did every civilization outside the Core worlds bother to teach their children anything, or was it all just pirates and bounty hunters out here – the carrier would no doubt plunge to the ground. And the creature inside would fall right along with it, unless the complaining astromech would catch it in time.

Kallus very much doubts the astromech would catch it in time. 

Like the scene from a slapstick holovid, Kallus can see the events that lie ahead of them, should that carrier fall to the ground. The creature would be hurt, obviously. The fall was not a long one – not even two meters – but even from that height, a being that young would be vulnerable to injury. If it was harmed, the entire Ghost crew would be thrown into a fury trying to take care of it. They would use whatever precious medical resources they had at their disposal – which were incredibly expensive, incredibly rare, and incredibly difficult to procure, since the Empire had become much better at anticipating their moves these past few months – and then the rebels would have less supplies to use on their own wounded when they inevitably came across the next emergency. They would take turns soothing the being, trying to take away its pain and fear, and the probably take turns arguing over whose fault it was this had happened in the first place. They would have to come up with a new plan for taking care of the creature, and that plan would no doubt hinder the efficiency needed to keep this rebellion running even at half-steam. 

And it goes without saying that this entire sequence of events will detract the time and attention away from planning the rebellion’s next move. Because Kallus knows this particular band of rebels like no one else, and it would be just like them to storm into a medical facility with the little alien in their arms, the whole “wanted by the Empire” thing be damned.

(Not for the first time, Kallus wonders how this particular cell of rebels managed to foil his every attempt at capture, back when he was an Imperial. Shameful, really.)

That series of events, aside from being the kind of absolute lunacy he’s come to expect from this lot, will only disrupt their assignment of delivering relief supplies to the rebel cell on Mylea. Most of the people there are starving thanks to an Imperial blockade, and won’t last much longer. They don’t have time to be distracted due to Bridger’s incompetence. 

Besides all that – if the carrier fell, the thing will probably never stop crying. 

Kallus, simply, cannot let any of it happen.

***

Just as he suspected, it doesn’t take long for the astromech abandon its post.

Kallus has a distraction planned, but luckily the droid is just as cranky and unhelpful as he calculated. He waits until he can no longer hear its wheels rolling down the corridors of the Ghost, checks once more for any signs of nearby footsteps, and approaches the creature in the sling.

A series of small noises comes from inside the carrier. Nothing like the speech patterns of any sentient Kallus knows of; little chirps and clicks and strange, half-garbled syllables that sound as if something is trying to speak some new language. One that sounds part-Basic, part-binary, and part some ancient, forgotten language of long-dead gods.

There’s a brief moment before peering inside the carrier when Kallus wonders when, exactly, the little sentient grew heavy enough to strain the knots holding its carrier in place. It’s still young enough to be considered a “newborn” by standard galactic years. 

Then again, Kallus is hardly an expert on younglings. And he has seen only seen this particular one a handful of times since coming aboard the Ghost. He figures the rebels are trying to keep him as far away from the little creature as possible. They probably assume he’d try to put it into stew, like a monster in some old nursery rhyme sung with hand-claps by children young enough to be frightened of such things. Because everybody knows the Empire eats babies, the same way they kick fuzzy little lothkittens and adorable bantu pups, and generally enjoy cutting down fields of pretty wildflowers for the hell of it. 

Then he realizes all of this is pointless to think about, and banishes it from his mind. It doesn’t matter how much the thing has grown, or how quickly it may have happened, or how surprising that is, considering the short amount of time he’s been a part of the rebellion. 

It doesn’t matter.

It’s just useless fact he’d have to forget.

***

So far, Zeb had lived up to his promise that the rest of his crew wouldn’t give him any funny business. And he’s made sure Jarrus kept little Jabba the Hutt tightly muzzled, just in case he got it in his lothrat head to try and do something incredibly stupid and disobey Syndulla’s direct order NOT to go near him.

Zeb has in fact, Kallus reflects, lived up to every promise he’d made since bringing the former ISB-agent-turned-traitor-against-the-Empire aboard a ship filled with people he dedicated a significant portion of the last few years trying to hunt down. The crew treats him well, if with a stiff formality that Kallus could only expect from former adversaries. He’s fed, given clothes to wear, given medical attention if needed, and they don’t leave him chained up in a dark closet to starve, or torture him in a private cell somewhere. 

They don’t even lock the door to his bunk at night. 

(When he hears the whoosh of the door opening when everyone else is supposed to be asleep, Kallus lies there and briefly, insanely, considers making a run for it)

(Then he feels the familiar weight resting on the edge of the bed, the same low, throaty rumble of contentment, and the thought blows away, weightless as a grain of sand)

Every day takes Kallus farther and farther away from everything he gave his entire life to, and deeper into space with this ragtag band of rebels. Each of whom has about a million and one reasons to hate his guts for various atrocities committed in the name of duty.

(Oh, Kallus knows all too well about just doing his duty, just following orders, just being a good soldier…)

Despite the crew’s less-than-enthusiastic reception of him, it’s nowhere near the disaffected cold of the Imperial variety he experienced coming back from that moon. Not like the feeling he had aboard Konstantine’s starship, ice so cold it burned what was left of his heart. Cold enough to keep him wrapped in the same cloak of blankness he’s been in ever since that trader dropped him off – 

(“so this is home?” the trader had asked him as they came out of hyperspace, and Kallus could only jerk his head in a semblance of a nod; even before this whole mess, he’d never once considered the starship where he effectively spent most of his waking hours home, and never asked himself why)

(He never asked himself why)

(Not before Zeb)

sealing him off from the hardness in their stares, the distrust in their eyes. It’s as if he’s encased in a layer of ice so thick, he can’t even see what’s on the other side of the wall. 

After discovering the absolute cold of the Empire, of everything he was and is and used to be and did and destroyed and ruined and believed and trusted and wanted, he’s completely inured to the cold. 

And these days, nothing matters anymore. There’s no reason to care about anything. 

He keeps this to himself, though, because just because the crew hasn’t threatened to kill him 

(yet) 

doesn’t mean they think he’s on their side, and any talk like what goes on inside his head – 

(the kind about monsters and power and the empty futility that’s eating away at his days; the kind that makes him dream at night of being alone in freezing, absolute darkness, knowing you were completely abandoned, left to die, and there’s not a soul out there who would care one way or the other) 

No. Best keep those thoughts to himself. 

***

He thinks he hears footsteps, so he ducks back into a corner and swears under his breath, that catch-all phrase of Zeb’s he’s adopted against his will since coming aboard.

On a long list of things Kallus absolutely does not need right now, it’s anyone aboard this ship seeing him alone with the being resting in that carrier. 

He’s seen the way the entire crew dotes over it. Bridger holds it high above his head, laughing with it and making ridiculous faces just to see the smile on its small, round face. The Mandalorian girl always bops the top of its head when she walks by, calling it nonsense names with the closest thing to a smile as Kallus has ever seen on her face. The old clone is always picking it up and swinging it around, tickling its stomach while the creature pulls on his beard. Even the cranky droid seems to care about it, in his own way; Kallus has observed the outdated rustbucket sitting near the cradle while it naps, threatening to electrocute anything that threatens to disturb its slumber.

(Zeb claims to have liked the thing better “when it was inside instead of out”, but Kallus knows enough about interrogation techniques and reading facial expressions to tell that Zeb’s all bluster. He can tell by way those large eyes go soft when he thinks he isn’t being observed, the way his ears relax and his shoulders loosen and the muscles of his striped face unclench like a fist when the little creature looks his way or lets out one of its manic, pealing giggles)

Kallus has observed them all. 

Oddly enough, it’s Syndulla who he rarely sees with it. But it doesn’t strike Kallus as avoidance, or simply being uninterested. Not like the parents he knew on Coruscant, who treated their kids – kids he grew up with, classmates and then cadets, and some of them brothers-in-arms on the front lines – like accessories, or necessities for maintaining the expectations that most wealthy Imperial families kept. The families Kallus grew up with were bound together by Imperial bloodlines and respectability politics, where children were seen and not heard, stood still and looked pretty, with no spectacles to ruffle feathers and make neighbors talk.

With Syndulla, though, he senses the intensity of her emotions like a covered flame. She keeps them deep and in check, maintaining a level of collectedness amid total chaos that he grudgingly has to admit he admires, and would even if he still worked for ISB. He sees her approach motherhood with no less professionalism than he sees her take to commanding star ships and discussing rebel tactics. She’s got a rebellion to run, a ship to pilot, a fleet to command, a family to protect, a galaxy to save. The little one is no more or less important than any of those. 

But in that same vein, Kallus knows that if anyone ever raised a finger to her youngling – whether that finger be Imperial, Rebel, or just your garden-variety backwater criminal – Syndulla would end the being without a second thought. And he senses that she feels the exact same way about Bridger and the Mandalorian and Zeb, as well. 

The Twi’lek must eat solid metal for breakfast, he thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised considering her heritage, but there’s a certain respect he owes her. 

He’s seen animals defend their young before. Once when their unit was stationed on Mygeeto, his troops set up camp too close to the den of a wild jungle creature and her newborn cubs, and the mother attacked them. Teeth and claws didn’t stand a chance against blaster bolts, but that didn’t seem to matter to the creature, not where her babies were concerned. The cubs were left orphans that night, but it took four shots to finally stop the mother from coming after his men. 

There’s a rustle and a brief, sharp cry coming from the carrier that stops Kallus dead in his tracks. He wonders how to grab a hold of the creature without upsetting it. He wants to avoid setting off a round of screams that will have every rebel in this forsaken hellhole star system heading right towards him, cannons blazing. 

He sees the smallest reach of a little green hand reaching up, waving in the air like a flag, and little green feet pedaling as if riding some imaginary speedbike. Despite the color of the skin, though, the sounds coming from the source are indistinguishable from that of a human infant’s. 

Kallus remembers all of the times his parents said it was unnatural; that interspecies relationships were an abomination, no better than animals rutting, and their sexual deviancy should not have to be flaunted and “tolerated” by anyone who disagreed with their proclivities. It was filthy and disgusting, they sniffed. You might as well try to breed with farm animals or house pets.

Back in the days of the Republic, interspecies marriages were always a hot-button topic for the wealthier worlds. Every planet had their own rules and rights extended to those partnerships, and while it wasn’t a crime, it had been heavily frowned upon. Every time a Senate seat came up for election, there was always some far-right candidate running on an anti-alien platform, promising to pass legislation that would criminalize interspecies marriages all across the galaxy. It never happened under Republic government, but not for lack of trying. Even in the most backwater worlds of the Outer Rim, where the Senate rule wasn’t as far-reaching and the rules mattered less, it had still been frowned upon.

Nowadays, though – 

He approaches the sling and tries not to think about Geonosis. About Lasan. About the countless other civilizations who “died out” to make room for human habitation, of the “relocations” of native species for terraforming purposes, of “uncivilized societies” being “re-settled” by rule of the Empire. 

It doesn’t work.

All he ever thinks about these days – when the numbness of self-loathing isn’t turning his mind into a black, bottomless cavern filled with hungry monsters screaming at him and wearing faces of the slaughtered – are answers he didn’t realize there were questions for. 

Like what happens to those who can’t protect themselves in Imperial crossfire.

***

The real challenge, he notes, is figuring out what to do with the creature while he fixes the knot. 

He can’t very leave it inside the carrier while he takes its fastenings apart. If he sets it on the ground, it will just scuttle away and probably find some way to fall out of the airlock. And he needs both hands free to re-tie the knots, so he can’t hold it himself. 

Not that he would, anyway.

In the end, he takes one of the empty packing crates from the brig to set the creature inside, hoping it can’t figure out a way to climb out or topple the box. 

See, this is why he’s never liked babies. Not that he’s spent any extended amount of time with them, but just from being around the civilian populations, he’s seen enough to not be a fan. They have strange smells and make weird noises, no control over their bodily functions, and their means of communication are more difficult to understand than the most primitive alien species. They can’t be reasoned with or ordered around, and there was no controlling them in any capacity. They understand nothing.

It would be a funny predicament, he thinks, if he had much of a sense of humor. He was once one of the Empire’s most decorated ISB agents. A respected soldier. A commanding leader. 

And now he can add “temporary child-minder” to the list.

Except that list doesn’t exist, because he’s none of those former things now. The Empire has labeled him a traitor and one of their most-wanted fugitives. He’s been stripped of all rank and commendation. He has no standing among his peers, and no citizenship in the world he used to inhabit. However impersonally he was treated as a member of the Empire, now that he is no longer on their side he’s suddenly important as an individual.

The irony is certainly not lost on him.

Another irony in his life these days: the Empire couldn’t spare precious resources to find him when he was trapped on that moon with Zeb, when he was a part of them and a member of their community. But now that he’s exiled, they seem to have an endless supply of time, manpower, and weaponry to track him down. 

Nobody came for him on that moon. He eventually got picked up by a trader ship and from there was able to contact his unit, only to be dropped into a world that had never missed him in the first place. Those were the people he considered his…well, not friends or family, nothing like that, but they were his…his people. His crew. His reason and his purpose. His entire LIFE.

And they couldn’t even deign themselves to miss him.

(Not that they had much of a reason to, he thinks)

He wonders how long he was trapped in that dark cave with Zeb, how close those monsters were to swallowing both of them whole, before someone even noticed he was gone. He wonders how many were disappointed that he came back. 

***

Its eyes are enormous.

Seriously, that can’t be normal. They’re the size of saucers; they take up most of its entire small face.

Has any creature ever had eyes this big?

Kallus finds himself leaning closer before he can stop himself. Twi’leks tend to have bigger eyes than humans, so it makes logical sense that the creature would take after its alien heritage, but there’s something so unnerving about eyes that big on a being so little, and the stillness in their gaze, the softness and complete lack of cynicism and self-protection, the innocence there, and the trust, that’s what sends a knife through his gut. The absolute trust in those wide, wide eyes, the way it assumes the entire world loves it

(loves her)

just as much as the Ghost crew does, and that there’s no way that could possibly be untrue. 

He has never been this close to…to her. He tries to limit any interaction with the crew, only occasionally running into them during meal times, which he tried to stagger so he doesn’t have to eat feeling the blatant hatred rolling off Bridger and the less blistering but still razor-sharp dislike from the Mandalorian girl, the cautious observance of Jarrus 

(who somehow still manages to fix Kallus with a gaze that would still be intense and unsettling had he not been a blind Jedi) 

and the cool judgment of Syndulla.

The only times he’s ever seen the infant are moments when he’d walk into the Ghost kitchenette area to find Jarrus or Bridger nestled comfortably on the cracked vinyl bench seats with a bottle of formula and a rag draped over their shoulders, covered in stains Kallus would rather not think about. They were always accidental, those moments, and whenever he stumbled across a scene like it he would turn and walk away before Bridger could reach for his lightsaber, or Jarrus would give him that disquieting gaze of his. 

So really, he barely saw the creature at all. And it 

(she)

barely saw him. 

(Except that one time, but Kallus is sure that was a fluke. It had to be. There was no reason for her to smile at him that way, or to even look at him the way she had, eyes bright like they were…happy?)

(Anyway, it was a fluke. It was definitely a fluke.)

(It wouldn’t matter if it was a fluke, anyway. Nothing matters, right?)

Some part of his brain is telling Kallus to get a move on, already, because any minute that nasty old droid or any other member of this crew that definitely does not like him could come back and catch him standing right here, so close to their beloved youngling that he can feel her soft breath on his face

(it smells milky and warm, almost sweet, and it’s oddly pleasant)

close enough to reach out and touch her green skin

(Skin that looked impossibly soft; how could skin ever be so smooth and flawless? He’s peppered with scars from battle and various childhood scrapes that seem inevitable no matter how carefully you conduct yourself, but this baby’s green skin looked like it’s the texture of the silks his mother used to wear when attending the opera back on Coruscant, like the finest material in the galaxy owned only by its wealthiest; a most extravagant treasure)  


close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her small baby body.

He heard somewhere that Twi’leks naturally have a warmer core body temperature than humans, so it makes sense that this child should feel warm just as a natural state of being, but it surprises him just the same.

(He can’t remember feeling anything but cold and hollow and hopeless, and this tiny creature just emanates warmth like it’s a part of her skin, coiled inside her tiny bones and shining out from her wide, hopelessly innocent eyes)

(He’s felt warmer on some nights. It will hit him like snatches of a dream he half-remembers – the meteor he keeps next to his bed, the gruff softness of a voice in the dark beside him, the texture of a larger, clawed hand holding his under the covers –)

(but it never lasts) 

This is the closest he’s ever been to the infant, and he can’t move.

They stare at each other, blue eyes staring into green. Vivid green, he realizes for the first time; she has the lekku and typical facial construction of a Twi’lek from her mother, but there is something about the eyes that is completely different. Kallus wonders if it had inherited those eyes from Jarrus, then shoves the thought into the back of his mind in a compartment somewhere he doesn’t want to ever open, because if he knows the answer to that question it will be one more useless fact about these rebels he can never forget. 

(Like the child’s name)

(Tesadora Jarrus)

(He never wants to know this) 

(Tesa) 

(But he can’t unlearn it)

***

They’ll be at the rebel command center soon, and Kallus will be debriefed on what he knows about the latest Imperial intel, how legitimate it is, whether or not it’s something they can act on or a highly elaborate trap designed to capture them. Kallus doesn’t expect to be much help –he escaped the Empire only a few weeks after Grand Admiral Thrawn took over – but he brought that same point up with Zeb back when he first joined the rebels, and Zeb snapped at him that he knew more about Thrawn than any of them currently did, which put him in a better position than they would be without him, and besides, considering he was on their side now, why wouldn’t he want to help the rebellion?

“Think of all the good you could do,” he snarled at Kallus, yellow eyes blazing with righteous fury that Kallus just found tiresome nowadays. “You want to start…atoning, or whatever it is you think you’re doing? You could do more good in a day than you would ever do working for the bucketheads. You could be saving lives!”

“Or I could add to your collateral damage count,” Kallus shot back, “which I’m sure is astonishingly higher than you realize. Tell me, do you keep count of all the Imperial citizens who die just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or does it just not matter?”

“Noble words, coming from you,” Zeb sneered. 

Kallus simply matched his expression. 

Zeb let out a growl of frustration, turning his back on him and heading for the door. He stopped just short of opening it, then turned back around, and Kallus was surprised to see all challenge and fury gone from his striped face. Now Zeb just looked at him with this look that might be…worried? 

Except that makes no sense. Why would the Lasat be the least bit worried about him?

“You had honor,” Zeb said quietly, his ears drooping low. “I may not like what you stood for, but you had honor. I can respect that. Now…you’re just nothing. I thought better of you, Agent Kallus.”

The use of his old title was a deliberate bite, one that Kallus felt sinking into the empty chamber of what used to be his heart and squeezing whatever might be left in there.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, unable to look at those yellow eyes, “look where honor got me.”

Kallus knows Jarrus could probably use his Jedi mind tricks to force answer out of him – terrible pun, really – and wonders if they’re planning on doing just that. He had plenty of first-hand experience watching the Inquisitors extract information out of rebel prisoners. Their cool malice and desire to inflict pain seems a little far removed from Jarrus’s silent, unwavering patience, but this is war, and it’s not as if Kallus has any right to claim innocence.

Well, fine, he thinks. Let these rebels torture him. Let them use their mind tricks on him, get him to spill secrets that could bring down the Empire, or at least weaken it considerably. Let them hand him over to their commanding officers to do what they will. 

It’s still going to be less than what he deserves, for all the pain he’s caused. 

He has nothing left in his life. Nothing left to lose. Nothing to love, believe in, stand for, fight for. No honor, duty, any of that propaganda he was force-fed at the Imperial Academy and believed in completely, because why would he ever doubt the foundation his entire life was built upon? 

He doesn’t fucking care about what happens to him. That’s a fact. And there is no one out there who does.

(Except Zeb)

(“You had honor”)

(Zeb has honor)

(Zeb sees him)

It would be funny, in a weird, ironic way if the truth were not so pathetic. Literally the only creature in the galaxy who does not want him a) dead b) a semi-prisoner until they can decide whether he ought to be trusted, or c) shoved out an airlock (Bridger’s words) is a being whose entire culture Kallus participated in wiping out. 

And despite that, despite the fact that he used to be an Imperial, despite the fact that he murdered countless of Zeb’s kind and did it all in the name of meaningless words like duty and honor and greater galactic vision, the Lasat can look him in the eye and say things like, “I thought better of you.”

Zeb is the only person who believes him to be more than just the man who ruthlessly hunted them not too long ago. With Zeb, he’s judged by what he’s done NOW as opposed to then. 

He doesn’t for a second think that Zeb (or anyone) will ever forget the past, the hunting, what happened on Lasan or anywhere else. And they shouldn’t, because he never will.  
But Zeb – he weighs the deeds he’s done now. He sees who he’s trying to become. 

He SEES him. 

He doesn’t think anyone has ever really seen him, the person behind the ranks and the uniform and the command and the “yes, Agent Kallus” and the duty, because to them he’s just another faceless servant, that’s what he always was, reliable, expendable, another droid to be cut down when he’s outserved his purpose. 

He wouldn’t be here right now if not for Zeb. For feeling that burn of jealousy watching the Ghost crew take him off that cold Geonosian moon, for seeing the love and acceptance and JOY they felt at taking him back into their fold. They go to unimaginable lengths to save each other, face impossible odds, all for the people they love, people who can’t just be replaced with the next mindless droid programmed to do whatever its master bids. Then that grew into jealousy that Zeb had tried to understand him, tried to show respect for his point of view even though Kallus was complicit in the cleansing (call it what it is, it was genocide, call it what it is and stop being a coward hiding behind “I was just following orders”) of his people, when Kallus is part of the reason Zeb is one of the last of his kind, he still tries to understand, and the Ghost crew 

(well, not the Jedi kid and the Mandalorian girl, but Syndulla does, and Jarrus, to a lesser extent, probably because he trusts Syndulla’s judgment but only up to a certain point where Kallus is concerned)

does the same.

They don’t give up on him. They don’t see him as an enemy, friend, or colleague. They look at him as someone they don’t entirely trust and don’t understand, but see as capable of remorse and regret and change. And for now, he has at least a little bit of understanding. 

Or the promise of it, at any rate. 

The baby smiles and waves her hands above her face, playing with the light from the lamp above her carrier. He watches her.

The men he’d served with wouldn’t look at this infant and see a baby with the largest, most expressive green eyes Kallus has ever seen on any creature, human or not.

They wouldn’t see the sunny, toothless smile and the way her arms reach out, wanting to touch everyone, expecting the adoration the Ghost crew showers on her. An infant with impossibly soft skin and huge green eyes and a sunny, toothless smile that sparks something inside his chest and maybe brings the smallest warmth to the blood sludging through his veins.

They wouldn’t see a child. 

They would see an alien. 

Primitive. Savage. Uncivilized. Disposable.

Nameless.

How the hell could the Empire even bother hurting a creature so helpless and small and ultimately useless to them? Why bother trying to overpower a baby to their iron fist when it can’t even hold its head up straight? What does the Empire DO with useless beings such as this one? What happens to those who can’t be forced to comply simply because it’s not possible?

He knows the answer, and it makes the monsters in his chest sink their frozen fangs into whatever’s left of his useless, worthless, pathetic, broken, utterly incapable heart. 

***

He doesn’t know how to hold her, but she doesn’t seem to care. She just lets out another soft coo when he lifts her out of the blasted sling.

He expects her to start screaming or trying to free herself. Instead, the little girl gazes up at him with those unblinking green eyes, sucking on one small fist with a bewildered expression on her face.

 _You and me both_ , Kallus thinks, then scoffs to himself.

He stands perfectly still as she stares him in the face, picking at his shirt with surprisingly sharp little nails. She is heavy and solid, and he did not expect that from such a tiny body. She feels alive, and for a moment Kallus just stands there with his arms locked in that position.

And she definitely has grown. He can’t believe Bridger didn’t notice, and adjust the sling to compensate for the baby’s increase in weight and length. Kallus has learned the hard way not to underestimate the kid, but it appears he overestimated how much common sense the Lothrat actually has. 

Her little fingers brush the bottom of his chin – 

(Tesa)

And touch his lower lip. 

Then he blows a puff of air into her face.

The baby rears back from him, wrinkling her nose and giving him this hilariously judgmental scowl. It’s such an adult expression, completely incongruous with her tiny features, and there’s the threat of a smile curling across his lips, along with the monsters and darkness and ice and self-loathing and duty and honor and the loss of absolutely everything, everything in his whole world.

Then he snaps himself out of it. He has no idea what possessed him to do something so ridiculous; he must be losing his mind. 

He probably doesn’t have much time left before someone catches him, and no one aboard this ship would ever believe him if he told the truth.

(Except Zeb)

(Zeb sees him)

(Zeb believes)

Moving as carefully as he can, he sets the baby 

(Her name is Tesa)

into the empty packing crate like she’s made of the thinnest sheet of glass. Then he turns to the wall, and starts to untie Bridger’s sling from the fastenings. 

(“Zeb. That’s my name.”)

(“Short for Garizeb. I know.”)


End file.
